


The Void-jump 'incident'

by Vuetyris



Series: Operative Warren [1]
Category: Warframe
Genre: Canon relevance, Child Mob, Disassociation from reality, Fist Fights, Gen, Imprisoned Tenno, In-game story spoilers, Isolation Cell, Major accident, Parent Death, Partial Mind Control, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, The Void, Transferance Project - Freeform, Void as a Force of Nature, Zariman Ten-Zero - Freeform, child endangerment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 05:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15700605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vuetyris/pseuds/Vuetyris
Summary: White energy streaks outside the ship as it enters the fold, a display on monitor screens to excited passengers. A trip of a life-time, a lottery ticket journey from Saturn to the Outer gates… a cheer turning into snarls as words whisper through anxious minds.Survivors shouldn’t be treated like this…





	The Void-jump 'incident'

**Author's Note:**

> As a forewarning, this includes violence against child characters to align with pre-established Orokin brutality. Prerequisite information includes The Second Dream and The War Within - in terms of pre-collapse Orokin information. Warren will not align with the Lotus; and as such only has similar pre-game events as a Tenno.
> 
> -+- Kudos and comments are encouraged! -+-

There is jolt as the Zariman Ten-zero’s engines kick in, shuttering beneath the patrons not settled onto the numerous affixed seats, lurching and tossing those without a place as the void-jump drive hums through the vessel’s mechanics, resounding as a harrowed echo through the nestled arboriform system around its passengers. Bodies sway as it turns ever so slowly, an announcement screaming over the nuisance echo as screens display the endless back of space. People banter beneath the cataclysm of noises, walking in sways as people hoot and holler, kids screaming to the dismay of exhausted parents.

Glasses rattle within their dock behind him as he watches the ship’s external display, in awe as energy sparkles around the smooth hall, whipping around the crescent structure from end to end. A shell emerges around the ship as he watches over the head of other passengers, focus intent and dismissing the screams around him – sudden shouts to startle instead of anxious fear. Teenagers, he figures, glancing off over the ledge as he watches the relaying spectacle taking place outside the hull in his peripheral; catching himself with the overlooking railing and a stranger’s side as the ship lurches.

They apologies, shuffling themselves out of the way even as he apologizes in return.

Energy white strikes outside the ship’s hull to the surprise of those watching, a short reaction melding of fear and awestruck shouts. For some, it was about as exciting as their life would ever get. Watching the ship’s externals take the brunt of the energizing bombardments, the sheer action of star-struck propulsion to those among the lower caste.

Warren watches beneath the rails as he rides out the turbulence as others banter, looking between the many perspectives on display; perhaps the other caste halls have better views. Unassuming at first as legs nudge him aside. “What a better look, kiddo?”

Hurriedly he squeezes himself out from between the guard rails, staring up this father for a moment before the ship lurches again – a lashing from the void energy as the ship breaches the fold, singing into the break in space. Commotion breaks out among the rowdy passengers; hooting and hollering, cheerful as it slips into the breath of a void-jump – a first for many aboard.

Arms lift him suddenly, hoisting the child up with a laugh as Warren scrambles to latch around his father’s head – held in place by a firm grip. Above his father he can see everything, looking over the hoard of people both on the floor below and around him. Families of different makeups, teens huddled in the outskirts as their parents make idle chatter. So many people… his colony never had this many people even during meetings. “You alright Jacob?”

“Yeah,” he chips, swaying as his father moves through the crowds of the congested hall, passing families large and small; he wonders where they came from as they pass. “Where are you going?” his toothy smile falters, leaning back to the screens behind him, catching a glimpse of the ship’s external shell.

“To the upper decks,” his father smiles below, maneuvering out of the way of a large family. Two older men and their daughters – their arms tattooed. Warren only catches a glimpse of the shape. He barely avoids colliding with the entrance’s open frame as his father ducks beneath it – small hand following through as they enter the less crowded hallway outside.

Brilliant cream, gold, and steeling grey beams around them; barren of constant wear and tear like other vessels. “I thought those was for the orokin?” he mumbles, latching around his father’s head, leaning forth and cramping his neck. Too neat, too clean, Warren grumbles.

“All access,” his father grunts, shifting his back against the kink forming at the base of his neck. “They’ll let us in. Then you can finally see from a pilot’s perspective.” Behind him, Warren grumbles.

“I don’t like them; they make funny faces at me.”

A sigh, shuffling as he motions Warren off his shoulders – the crowd subsided. “As long as we stay out of their way, they can’t hurt us.”

“Why are they here anyway,” Warren blankly states, fingers balling around his father’s hands, moving himself against his father’s side.

“Same reason we are, Jacob. Come, let me show you the stars.”

Beneath them, the ship shutters.

And nothing.

Out among the deck he stares in awe, energy tendrils wrapping against the dense overarching pane separating the small hall from the congestion of space. “Aint it wonderful?” His father grins, leaned up against the rail, releasing a heavy sigh. “I’m glad we got this opportunity,” he whispers, barely audible to Warren.

The peace doesn’t last long; a truth breaking as his father begins to raise his voice.

 

“Get out of my way, grimy,” an adored orokin snarls, puffing out his chest as Warren clings to his father’s oil splotched pants. His small fingers yank as his father stands firm, staring down the spotless orokin that stepped in their path.

“Apologize to my son,” drips through his father’s teeth as Warren protests.

“Let’s go dad,” he tries, staring up to the bandaged cheek looking back.

“Jacob, stay out of this,” his father shouts, flicking Warren’s hands off his dirty pants.

Splotches of grease cling to Warren’s hands as he watches the adults stare down, his father’s shorter stature dismissing the other’s cultural status. Around him, people seem complacent, a few cheering on the confrontation as it was the orokin that came to them – he doesn’t belong here.

“Dad, stop it,” he tries again to plea, yanking his father’s shirt with as much as he can muster – barely swaying the agitated mechanic. A hand bats him away, forcing him to stumble holding his cheek. Before he can say anything, there’s already a brawl – a smack of skin on skin as his father shoves the stranger down to the floor, grappling the orokin into a full fledged fist fight.

Golden gauntlets strike back, spreading blood from a once bandaged cheek – and the ship shutters around them – others piling on.

Warren can only watch, tears welting as the commotion swells around him. Panic screams spill from the orokin; “what did I say?” is muffled as the mob swells with curses of tyranny and injustices. Angry dismissals at the stranger’s confusion about how they got there. Even if they picked a fight – the confused scream persists, shouting apologies his father and others dismiss.

‘You’re gonna die here, kiddo,” Warren can remember, confusion swelling with anxiety as his father only limps away, brushing off Warren’s concern – only for him to return a second later with apologies.

“Dad, I’m scared,” he sobs, knuckles rubbing the tears from his eyes. Rough hands pull his hands away, splotching the tears off with a clean rag.

“I don’t know what got over me,” his father whispers out among the hall – the orokin silenced. “They just came up and… said that. I’m sorry,” he huffs, pulling Warren into a hug. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

 

People scream as the ship jolts beneath them, Warren dragged through the crowd as his father shoves people out of the way. Children are screaming, a fight breaking out in the muddied distance as he’s finally able to find the space to breathe – a cloth held against his face. “What’s going on?” he can hear his father ask as he coughs into the makeshift face mask. Hands guide him close, but he shoves his way out of the confines. He needs room.

“I don’t know,” a stranger’s voice answers back, holding her sons close at her side. “There was a food shortage announced – is this your only child?” they continue, glancing down to where Warren has cemented himself at his father’s side.

“Yes; it’s just me and him. I don’t have a partner,” he can hear his father sigh, letting Warren’s small hand tug him close. “He hasn’t been eating for the past couple days and I thought…” his words trail, looking over the screaming near the front of the room.

“You’ve not taken him to the medical ward?”

“They’re all full – they don’t have time for him,” his father frowns, motioning off towards a congested entrance as other passengers scream in protest. “Fights have been breaking out all over the ship; and he doesn’t want to leave my side.” And Warren’s fingers curl into his father’s dirty shirt – a few days old. He hasn’t been sleeping.

Warren pulls on his father’s shirt, “Dad, lets go,” he whispers. There’s too many people here – they’re shouting, the sounds buzzing in his congested skull. “I don’t like it here.”

“Jacob, stay with this nice lady,” and his fingers are torn from the shirt, shoved to the side as he stands stunned.

“Dad,” sobs, tears fringing his sight, hands curling in the fabric held against his face.

And his father vanishes into the crowd, the scruff of his shirt holding him back.

The crowd chants for food as all he can do is watch, dread overtaking him as the stranger’s kids try to reassure him. Their words deafened, mind floating and congested as he falls into gagging coughs again.

 

“Somethings out there, kiddo, watching us,” his father whispers in the middle of the evening hours – an announcement repeating into mere background noise. Of a malfunction, food being rationed, a droning of emergencies as the ship dims in the simulation of a setting sun at their false window.

Warren sits curled up on his bed, trembling as he listens to people fighting on the other side of the thick walls. Women shouting, children screaming – and he buries his head among the blanket he’s yanked from the bed spread. A single bed keeps their proximity close as he glances to the side – his father staring into the starless distance, himself looking to the digital display across from the bed.

It’s been two hours since the announcements started – asking people to stay in their rooms, to lock the doors… a lock down as the alarm drones inconsistent to the racket propelling through the hollows in the wall. Three hours since his father sat still, dazzled in silence as the ship lurches beneath them, machinery rumbling beneath them.

At his side, his father resumes a harrowing hum; a static tone to match the bone chilling hum flowing beneath the walls. “Dad, stop,” he whispers, curling beneath the sheet, biting his knuckle as he tries to ignore the pungent persisting through his covered nose. And he whispers it again when his father resumes – brow twisting against his small crossed arms.

The announcement system crackles as the ship lurches again, throwing them to a side before evening out its artificial gravity once more – until the lights flicker into emergency mode, bathing them in an brilliant red hue.

Hands curl around his throat in a sudden jerk, shoving away his frantic withdrawl as he flails and scream, small hands gripping around his father’s wrists. The blankets furl around him, muffling his cries as he’s pushed back and lies half over the bed spread – fingers curling around his throat.

His exhausted kicks are useless, pinned beneath the adult’s brutality as the hands squeeze around his throat. “Shut up,” Warren hears his father grumble – it’s not his dad. It’s not him, he anguishes as the sheets fall away from his face and he can see the spiraling black in his father’s eyes.

Small fingers find their grip, digging into wrists as he tries to cry.

Then… it stops, Warren falling to the floor with gasps and chokes, crawling into a corner with a twisted stare.

Upon the bed, his father can only stare at his hands, trembling in the low lighting.

And he turns to Warren, anguish contorting his features. “Jacob… I’m sorry,” he tries to word, hands twisting into his unwashed hair.

Fingers burn around Warren’s wrists as he’s yanked from the floor, barely able to find his feet as his gut collides with porcelain before he can find his senses. The bathroom, his mind fragments as he turns to the locking click, door slamming him into darkness as he dismisses the pain in his knees and stomach while his father screams. His small fists pound against the door, his stunned lungs surging as he tries to find his focus – “stay in there, Jacob!” is all he can hear on the other side, broken by the sound of breaking furniture.

By the time his fingers tick the door unlock – it doesn’t budge. “Dad!” he coughs, frantically twisting the doorknob. “What’s going on?” Is all he can think.

“I don’t want to hurt you!” screams in return; noises met by thrown furniture, the sound of a body striking the metal walls. “Jacob, stay in there! I’ll handle this!”

“Dad!” and all Warren can hear is a door collide with a wall, letting loose the commotion of the outer halls now only muffled by the wooden door separating him from the only lights. “Dad, what’s wrong. Dad!” he can only scream, coughing and choking on panicked saliva. His cheeks sob as he tries to scream with exhausted lungs, striking the door with as much as his little arms can muster.

There’s a fizzling in the speakers throughout the ship, a voice daunting over panic and dread, distorting and alternating between calm and panic. “Don’t cry, kiddos,” the altered voice coos; making Warren’s blood run cold, stilling him until a scream contorts over the announcement system.

Warren punches the door when he finds himself again, groping in the darkness for anything, yanking at a towel rack held firmly in the wall.

He’s got to get out.

Find his dad.

Find his dad as the screams persist around him, smog saturating his lungs.

Fire, there’s fire somewhere, his brain tries to rationalize, striking the door with whatever strength he still possesses. Warren shoves his shoulder into the door – rebounding off the doorknob with a simmering cry. Needs to get out. There’s a fire. Echoes of screams fill the air outside the dark room, interlaced with the strange voice mumbling into the speaker system as he rubs his bruises, staring and fuming before he tries again.

But, as he tries again, and again, the commotion outside begins to settle, sparsed with sudden screams, the distant rumble, of minor echoes of long distant fights. And slowly, gradually, is replaced by an eerie cheering parade of laughter.

Running ragged, Warren shoves himself against the barricaded door. “Help me!” he coughs, hoping someone might hear him.

And, with his persistence, the voices begin to settle, replaced by muddied minute conversations of bickering children, crowding on the other side of the door. “Who’s in there?” one voice chimes, detached from the bumbling gargles of the announcement speaker.

“I’m, I’m trapped in here!” Warren cries back. “Please, please let me out!” he sobs, cradling his knuckles against his aching stomach.

“How do we know you’re not an adult?” another pipes up; outside the group climbs on the furniture holding the door closed.

“I,” Warren stumbles, grabbing the doorknob, twisting it to and fro – “I can’t open the door.” He whines, pushing and pulling the door with all his might – barely nudging the furniture shoved before it.

“Hmmm,” the first returns, “fair enough,” they relay. “Push this thing!”

Outside he can hear other children fussing, complaining spontaneously as they heave the object that keeps the bathroom door closed. In the time it takes for them to pull it over, and as Warren shoves the door open and into someone’s face, the speaker on the broadcast system has gone silent. He apologies as the droning announcement system finally creaks silent, unnerving as Warren watches the group gather outside the room.

“You’re on your own,” one shoves him as he tries to follow, making others turn and glance.

“What, why?” he tries to wipe tears away from his face, his hair messy and frizzy.

“You look funny,” another’s nose crinkles, “you’re tall, and smell.”

“I,” Warren chokes, looking amongst the staring eyes, “I don’t,” he protests, knuckling away snot and tears. “I want to find my dad. Have any of you seen him?”

“Don’t trust adults,” another spits, “they’re trying to kill us. We’ll kill them.”

“He- he knew something was wrong!”

“Did he attack you?” the leader walks back, eyes sitting narrow, squinting up at him.

“Yes, but” Warren sobs, making his face messy with grime.

“Then it’s better for him to be dead,” they flourish back to the front of the pack; and others follow suit.

Leaving him alone in the middle of the hallway, looking back over bodies coiling against the walls, where blood shed spreads over the walls around and above. Eyes stare up at him as he passes, large bodies barely breathing through beaten lungs, watching him as he passes. His fists ball around him, whispering as he wanders, trembling as anxiety clutches his tiny heart.

“Dad…?” he whispers, wandering a distance behind the party of children hooting and hollering down the hall. He can feel them staring at him; and tries to make himself as small as possible.

As he edges through the middle of a wide lobby, he finds him. Crumbled down against a planter, a pipe dances to the ground as Warren’s hands grasp around a bloodied face, digits squishing into gashing wounds as his father’s features run limp. “Dad…” his voice cracks, tears streaming as he tries to pull himself together, yanking on bloodied fabric. His hands cradle his father’s corpse, face pressing into the lingering warmth of blood masquerading as body heat.

“He’s better off dead,” a voice calls over to him – the crowd of children finding him again.

Their grip is relentless, yanking him upwards as all he can do is follow – hands brushing blood over his face as he tries to fight the tears, distraught as he looks back over the motionless form of his departed father.

A form lingers over his father, head laid half cant as it floats above the ground echoing his form. “What’s that,” he barely sobs, pointing back to the hovering shape.

“Nothing,” someone declares, yanking his bloody shirt.

As he looks back, the hovering form looks up; their eyes pooling black and shimmering white.

 

 

Warren’s head lashes to the side, body following through as he catches himself against a table, stabilizing himself as the disassociation buckles from his thoughts. His gaze is unfocused, floating in tears as he looks away from the surface and another tenno’s face – hustling themselves away from where he leans up against the canteen table. A voice shouts behind him, one cursing as he gradually pulls himself to turn back to them – a hand held against his cheek.

“Do you understand me?” the Orokin guard curses, looking over Warren’s shoulder to the children staring. “Mind your own business, void demons.”

“I’m, I’m sorry,” the young teen trembles, holding his brusied cheek. “What did you say?” he chokes, failing to hold back flowing tears – he can’t remember what they’ve asked. Barely holding himself from relapsing once again to the Zariman.

“Did you,” the guard grabs him by the scruff of his uniform, pulling the teen away from leaning against the canteen table, “have anything to do with the kid in the ventilation system?”

Right… the ventilation system…

He’d ushered a smaller tenno towards it – he almost made his way out before. It was dangerous, he admitted, but was easy to navigate last he checked… what happened to him?

“I… I don’t recall,” he lies, wincing as they shove him back to the table.

“Another one of you,” they emphasis, spitting ‘you’ as though it was poison to their tongue, “said they saw a tall lanky teen with them last, in the west wing. Did you have anything to do with them ending up in the vents?”

“N-no sir,” he stumbles, looking around him to the glances of the subdued children – just another confrontation between him and the guards; common enough for them to look the other way. “Wha-why are you asking me?” he chokes, massaging his cheek as they step back, their brow furrowed.

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because this is the third time there’s a corpse stinking up the vents again!” And they shove him back to the canteen table, where Warren catches himself.

Another kid… dead because of him.

“I… I had nothing to do with it,” he tries to choke back the balling in his throat, tears betraying him as his fists ball against his side. Don’t strike back, he tries to plea with himself. Each wheezing breath reminds him of his bruised lungs, the anxious pain as he tries to feint innocence. It pains him as his thoughts fumble; he did this… he thought it was a proper escape out of the facility, that it’d lead into the hanger where they can stowaway.

He was sure the route was safe enough; perhaps the Orokin caught wind? Changed the ventilation after he told others how to get out?

The guard spits, growling at the kids huddling down against their meals. “Five more minutes for meal time, then its back to the pods with all of you.”

“They’re, they’re just trying to eat,” Warren fumes, it hasn’t been that long. They’ve got nothing to do with this, he muses as he holds his battered cheek, staring up between his bangs.

“Whatever,” the guard growls, “you are all the same. Disgraceful brats, now-“ they start, shoving Warren back to where he was once sitting – his food cold and dissatisfying. “eat up before its back to the pod with you.”

Warren elbows back, smacking the guard’s hand off his person. “Don’t touch me,” he curses, teeth gritting. “It’s only been five minutes, they have plenty of free-time,” he snaps – answered by another smack to the cheek, hair coiled in armored fingers. Yanked, and shoved again back to a canteen table to the stunned silence of the other tenno. Blood trickles from his bitten lip, brushing it away as he looks back with a glare.

“Don’t talk back, kid,” the orokin guard growls, pushing Warren as they move to leave, “eat up, brat.”

Trembling, Warren’s thoughts bounce between subservience and retaliation, fists firming and shaking against the table’s surface. Another tenno whispers to him, ducked low and between them and him. “Hey, just calm down, I’m sure they didn’t mean anything by it…”

A comforting lie… that this was the best they could hope for. Living in squalor despite their needs, minds torn apart in shuddering somatic link pods. Kids screaming for the pain to stop, clutching functioning limbs and running panicked that they lost them despite their physical notions.

Warren rubs his busted lip with his armoring fists, flickering with void energy as he turns away from the kids trying to usher him calm. Calling that he’d get hurt, struggling to talk him down from a solution already swarming his mind.

Retaliation.

The Orokin guard’s back is turned as he pops his knuckles, ones messy by lingering grime, tears, and blood, bolstered by relentless void energy. One well placed punch will make their head spin, he confidently proclaims to himself, running himself high on confidence, that this one hit will solve everything. They’ll finally listen to them; and he breaks into a sprint.

Commotion made by the spectating children make the guard turn, glancing back as Warren knocks him down to the floor. The guard struggles to catch himself as he falls, kids shouting as he tries to turn over and face Warren – only for a void-tainted fist to collide with his jaw. Bone cracks beneath the young teen’s fists, another ceasing a panicked scream as it strikes and breaks his nose.

Others scream around him as Warren’s emotions take over, grappling the guard down against the floor as his void energy fists beat down into the Orokin’s smug features even as they twist. He can feel bones break as he lets go of his restraint, blood covering his fists as he strikes further down as they try to shove him off – denting the orokin armor inwards,

Hands try to pull him off, but he only strikes out further, elbowing another guard in the gut as he shouts. “Let go of me!” He screams, kicking at the guards, void energy bolstering his lashing out. Bloodied fists bend the orokin armor as he yanks, nearly knocking another off their feet as the air fills with shouts. Kids screaming and chanting for them to fight, the guards trying to get a hold of him.

Armored fingers twist around his sleeve, straining to shove Warren down towards a canteen table where reusable trays go flying – Warren lashing out and twisting beneath the adult’s grip. Kids scatter to and fro around them, watching the spectacle as the young teen elbows a guard in the gut, nearly twisting his way out of another’s grip.

And he crumples; a fist curled against his gut.

Before he has time to spit out the pain he’s already held down against a table, wrists twisted back as he shouts, cursing the guards, spitting at them as he tries to buck his head against theirs.

And a spike bites around his wrists, making him hiss.

Just as fast, he’s lifted from the canteen table. “Fucking, troublemaker aren’t you?” One spits, turning back to the children now scrambling back to their seats. “Finish up, you brats!” And Warren spits back, twisting in the handcuffs as hair sticks to his wet cheeks.

“Fight them!” Warren shouts; he’s not the only one with gifted abilities – he knows it, the other kids know it but… what would happen to them continues to play out as his arms are twisted behind his back. “You don’t got to listen to these Orokin fuckwads!” A fist strikes his cheek, casting blood out to the pavement beneath their feet.

“Shut up, brat,” one curses.

Warren looks over to where the first guard lies writhing on the floor. Their face brutalized, streaming blood as he screams into a cloth another guard has provided them. And, as Warren passes, he spits at him. “Fucking deserved it,” he sneers.

The guard forces him to walk, grumbling, “why do you have to make such a scene,” they curse, shoving him towards another group of guards. “Put him in isolation until he calms down. Busted up someone’s face.” Warren struggles as they try and restrain him further, yanked back by one guard to the mutter of ‘stop fidgeting, kid.’

“What happened?”

“Fucker deserved it,” Warren snarls, silenced as he’s pulled back by the guard.

“Shut up. Stone-fists here just went after a guard unprovoked.”

Warren glares at the guard as he tries to formulate a response; but his thoughts are rattled as he’s yanked away, shoved forth by the entourage of guards around him. In the cuffs he strains to find his concentration, fingers digging into the hem of his outfit as he’s directed to the lower level of the facility – a place he knows very well, where there’s nothing but a lingering madness to occupy his thoughts.

Too many guards to find his escape, the cuffs suppressing his bolstered fists still dripping with blood… helpless as he’s shoved into the isolation ward, hands held against his back just as the cuffs are removed.

He stumbles into a small, brightly lit room; a blinding cream and white that hurts his eyes as he looks back to the soft locking of the heavy metal door.

Void energy swirls around his fists – but his soul runs ragged, gasping as he feels the ache in his stomach, the resurging pain in his cheek he tries to cradle and to only draw back as blood soaks his cheek. Staring up towards the beaming light, far above him where the arboriforms hum… Warren’s shoulders droop, slumping back against a wall, his bloody fists hugging his legs tight.

“Good job, Warren,” he sighs between his legs, bouncing his temple off his knees. “Now you’re gonna spend a week in here again… good fucking job.” He heaves, hands curling around the back of his head; what’s going to happen to his warframe he was tied to now? “Idiot,” he curses, “moron, now you’ve gone and gotten them killed too…”

**Author's Note:**

> -+- Kudos and comments are encouraged! -+-


End file.
